


It Started With A Kiss, How Did It End Up Like This?

by FoxyTurttle



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Robots in Disguise (2015)
Genre: Animalistic Behaviour, Conflictual Relationship, Confused Romance, Developing Relationship, M/M, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Working things out, post-Season 1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxyTurttle/pseuds/FoxyTurttle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steeljaw knows what he wants and will stop at nothing to get it, though he needs to reclaim all that he has lost before. Thunderhoof <i>doesn't</i> know what he wants and won't stop making things hard for everyone, including himself. Meanwhile, Drift, of all the Autobots, is the one to have a share in their drama. And it concerns Fracture. The Minicons are just along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eabevella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eabevella/gifts).



> Actually it started with a prompt then, several inspirational comments later, I had started an on-going. This is my life as a fanfiction writer. Originally posted on Tumblr.

His intake cycle was laboured, rapid. Panicked.

The others had been captured.

Steeljaw had woken up alone, body sore but suprinsingly intact after being thrown away like so much garbage by the dark Prime. The foliage he had tumbled through had slowed his descent, the thick moss on the ground softening his final impact. His first thought had been for his pack. Calling them earned no response. Looking for them, no results.

A horrible feeling sunk into his chest and, limping, he made his way to the Autobot grounds. He had arrived just as they had locked Thunderhoof in. The soap opera-like irony of that had not been lost on the wolf-con.

Now he was huddled up at the deep end of a cave, its previous occupant, a big brown furry creature, laying dead at its entrance in warning, his tail sheltering him from the seeping cold of the night.

If only the appendage could also protect him from the other seeping feeling that slowly overtook his spark. His intakes were laboured, rapid. Panicked.

He was alone.

That sudden thought, pouncing on him like a predator, unleashed all emotions and he curled up further on himself, body trembling.

Wolf-cons were no strangers to solitude. Often one their kind would go about on their own, Steeljaw himself had made that choice at certain points of his life and had fared perfectly well. But choice or not, a deep rooted programming made them pack creatures - even the lonest of wolf-cons sometimes joined a group, if only temporarily. It was a useful survival instinct, one that made them seek the force of number; it was even more useful for someone inhabited with grand ambitions, the ones that required such force of number. It only had one true flaw: when one became packless, not by choice but by circumstances, the instinct turned craving and the lone member, the lone fearless leader, turned weakling.

Shivering, he recalled Divebomb’s and Airazor’s common bickering. Trembling, he thought of Underbite challenging his biceps against Clampdown’s powerful claws and the supporting cheers that ensued from the rest of the pack. Shaking, he remembered Fracture’s horrible singing voice and the jeer it got and the surprinsingly good-natured laughter that followed from everyone. Quaking, he reminisced the lair and its familiar scents and his inhabitants and his makeshift berth.

Jolting, suddenly paralyzed by the overwhelming anxiety, he mused over the recharging body that was more often than not against his own. The big one, the warm one, the one he had pawed and clawed in feverish passion, the one he had undone, the one he had sunk in, thrusting harder and harder and _harder_ until white heat overcame him and he spilled himself inside it.

Another shiver ran through his body, this time not out of fear, and Steeljaw was able to move again, releasing an intake that was long overdue.

Feeling light-headed, battling the feeling of helplessness that threatened to overtake him again, he made himself sit up, throwing his head bawkards, opening his maw and gulping fresh bowls of air. Several minutes passed, his intake cycle became less erratic and his spark settled. He kept his processor clear of everything but that body.

Only it was not just a body anymore but a gaze. An intense, distrustful gaze aimed right at him, one that turned skeptic, then neutral, then thoughtful, then annoyed, all towards different mechs. The gaze became a face that frowned down two rude minicons, a voice that sneered at a crab, an antlered-head that charged into a chompazoid during a spar, an arm that grabbed a bounty hunter’s shoulder in a uncouth but friendly way, a rarely heard laugh booming over the others… a smile never seen outside of privacy… a brush of a servo against his own… then a gaze again, uneasy this time, looking downwards in an uncharacteristic way, a large servo rubbing the back of a thick neck…

Spark steady, body relaxing, optics up at the ceiling but looking at nothing but that uneasy expression, Steeljaw let the memory play in his processor:

_“So… why?”_

_The elk-con finally looked up, frowning. “So why, what?” , he snapped._

_Undeterred, the wolf-con proceeded. “I observed that you had been staying the night lately. Regularly. And getting no answer I finally ask: why?”_

_That frown deepened, an antlered-head started stretching its neck in sign of discomfort. Not for the first time, Steeljaw wondered how Thunderhoof could always do such ample movements without being hindered by the appendages…or without hitting anyone he didn’t want to._

_“M’tired, ‘kay?”, he finally spat. “Yous got me run this way and that, usually carrying stuff, and while I ain’t a weakling it’s still hard work, ya know? So I’m tired. And after we finish getting frisky, I’m nice and relaxed to boot. So I just…stay where I am”, he started fidgeting angrily. “Figured it wasn’t a big deal.”_

_A sideway glance. The wolf-con fought the urge to smile knowingly, he settled for a teasing smirk._

_“I never said it was”. His only answer was an angry huff. At him or at its source was unclear. “I simply… noticed…”, he drawled. He couldn’t resist poking fun at the other._

_Especially when said other had such delightful reaction as ramming into the air in exasperation. There was something… endearing in that animalistic idiosyncrasy of his._

_What was less endearing was the way he stomped his way out of his leader’s room, throwing over his shoulder: “Yeah, well, it won’t happen again”._

_Quick as lightning, the wolf-con ran up to the door, effectively going past the bigger mech and standing in the middle of the recently opened door._

_“Now, now Thunderhoof”, he purred. “Don’t be hasty. I never implied I wanted you to stop… quite the contrary”. A tense look met his optic: resistance, anger, exasperation, and, underneath all these layers of protective toughness, so deep and tiny the mafia boss probably didn’t even sense it himself, a glimmer of hope. He liked that answer, liked the idea of being favored above the others, liked to be desired the way the wolf-con desired him…and he didn’t even know it. How quaint._

_A leery smirk adorned Steeljaw’s features. “…after all…the nights are rather cold, don’t you think?”_

_All in one the tension drained from the bigger mech, a drawl of air escaped him, sounding suspiciously like a sigh of relief, and he started moving with more ease._

_“Yeah. Yeah, that’s true”, he chuckled, breathily. “Gotta admit I have less stiff joints when I end up staying. Stupid cold ain’t good for them.”_

_“Agreed”, Steeljaw purred, taking a couple steps forward, closing the door with his tail and pressing against Thunderhoof. His claws made their way to the elk-con’s hips. “And I wouldn’t want you to suffer damage from something this trivial”._

_An inquisitive glance, a mix of worry, confusion and… again that glimmer of hope its owner probably didn’t even know existed. Oh, but this was a hard one to crack: so attached to his freedom, he didn’t even notice he wanted to let it go. Good thing wolf-cons had good survival instincts: it made them that more prepared to succeed in this type of situation._

_“It’d be a pity to lose part of our muscle”, Steeljaw finally finished, pleased to see the positive reaction: tension once again leaving the powerful frame against his…and that glimmer of hope becoming sparkle of dissapointment._

_Yes. Good thing wolf-cons had good survival instincts, the ones that enabled them to read minute details in people’s behaviour, the one that enabled them to see what one might not even notice about themselves and thus enabled them to effectively…_

“…seduce a desired potential mate.”

His optics refocusing, Steeljaw was finally able to see what was in front of him: the rocky, damp ceiling of a dark, cold, empty cave. So different from the vision he had had just that morning: that luminous, open world he ruled, surrounded by brethren…and offspring.

Survival instincts made a wolf-con seek force of number, but also warmth of caramaraderie, thrill of sentiments, protection of youngs. This morning he had two of these: a brethren at his back, a powerful pack whom he had assured loyalty through soft words and brutal might, and a lover in his berth, a potential mate who was more amenable to the idea than he even realized and whom Steeljaw didn’t mind being patient with. This morning he nearly secured the third element: he nearly had the planet Earth in his clutches… and then he was flung away from everything, literally and figuratively.

Fist clenched and a deep, angry growl made his way up his throat.

He nearly had _everything_ and those _Autobots_ , and that _Megatronus_ , had taken it all _away_. Locking up his dreams as surely as they had locked up his desired mate.

Foam started appearing around his maw as he snarled and gnawed in fury, body trembling this time in absolute ire. Well, they will **see**. The lock was sure but it wasn’t safe, and the wolf-con will prove it by picking it open once more, unleashing _everything_ again!

Yes. He will start by getting back his first associate, the one who will secure his line, and from then on his rightful future will unravel: full of Autobot cries of anguish, Decepticon howls of victory and himself at the top.

A cruel smirk lighted his features.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steeljaw starts reclaiming what he lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First prompt was from sounddrive, then Eabevella gave me another that followed it so well I had to continue...only I ended up cutting it in half.

_‘Their need for entertainement will be the Autobots’ downfall.’_

Was Steeljaw’s thought as he used the recently installed roller coaster to enter his enemies’ compound unnoticed.

It turned out that boredom had them make sure that they could use the joyride even while security was activated: a flaw the wolf-con had detected during his discreet scouting around the base, observing the protections that were put in place and noting the lack of them as the youngsters slid down the metallic structure. One night, as most of the team was out chasing one of his brethren, he put his theory to the test, climbing on the bottom of the ride and effortlessly jumping over the fence into the scrapyard.

No alarms. No gunshots. No one the wiser.

A satisfied smirk lit the Decepticon’s features, exposing his sharp fangs who eerily shone in the dark, his amber optics shrinking to pleased slits. He might get back what was his much sooner than expected…and with much more ease.

He silently made his way to the pods, mindful of any additional protection set up inside the premises. There were none. Approaching the first on his way, he peered inside to identify its occupant: Clampdown. Turning aside dismissively, he made his way to the next one, wiping away the excessive condensation on it: Fracture. A pleased nod. Moving to the next: a brother he hadn’t had the pleasure to meet in person yet. He did not recognize him but the quills on his back intrigued the wolf-con: this one could prove very useful once out in the open. Continuing his investigation, Steeljaw made his way through the pods: Underbite, a green amphibian-like mech, Kickback, Flamefeather (he hadn’t known the arsoner was on this ship), a spiky dinobot, a bird-like femme, he had _no_ idea what that was supposed to be…, a feline femme, Thunderhoof, what looked like-

He started, so caught up in his window shopping he hadn’t noticed he had found what he had been looking for. Or who, in this instance.

Caressing the glass, his gaze fell on the one he had came for, a hint of endearment making its way to his spark. Along with a great deal of annoyance and no little amount of reluctance.

A couple nights before he had firmly decided to get the elk-con out first, a sound decision given his general usefulness and the emotional value he was starting to aquire in those amber optics, and yet… During these few days, as Steeljaw devised strategies to get him out, the wolf-con also thought over what happened to lead him where he was, he began to review past mistakes and one of them made itself glaringly obvious: the backtalk and the dissipation he had recently been having from the ex-mafia boss.

It undermined the wolf-con’s authority and wasted time and energy in reasserting said authority on one servo, it exacerbated the tension in the group as Clampdown took the bad treatment less and less and everyone’s rigor slackened as Thunderhoof’s performances in his missions lowered, no longer setting the example Steeljaw needed to boost his troops. It was all terribly annoying and, more frustratingly, Steeljaw could not pinpoint when and _why_ it was all started in the first place. He thought he had good control over the mafioso, reading his every move and most secret thoughts, and then the bigger Decepticon unexpectedly changed his behaviour. Constantly did so, actually, prey to extreme moodswings and becoming less and less predictable...

Perhaps Steeljaw had been too lenient with him, perhaps he really shouldn’t jeopardize what little breakthrough he found in the Autobots' defense by liberating a loud-mouthed, difficult fool who was so confused about his own wishes he couldn’t decide whether to side up with Steeljaw or not… The wolf-con’s optics softened. 

Thunderhoof was a difficult fool alright, always dancing from one foot to another when it was just the two of them: relaxed then tensed, laughing with him then frowning away, tentatively affectionate then brutally distant… All the signs of someone who wanted closeness but refused to acknowledge it, all the signs of someone who would need an unordinate amount of patience and cajoling before they finally relinquished. How frustrating, how annoying, how… _terribly endearing_.

Steeljaw had never shied away from difficulties, he even had a tendency to look for them. One needed, after all, a certain kind of fearlessness for the ambitions the wolf-con nursed. And Thunderhoof was a difficulty. A warm, hulking, streetwise difficulty with an aft that promised delights and a stature that ensured a strong line. And then Steeljaw, who had dreams of creating youngsters to repopulate the world he would destroy only to rebuild it anew, dreams that made him crave that perfect candidate of a mate, thus Steeljaw learned how positively _charming_ his elk-like peer could be: his rough playfulness around the minicons and Underbite, his intriguing knowledge in engineering, his rare genuine smiles, his surprising gingerness of touch outside interfacing, his confused, mixed stares aimed at the wolf-con when he thinks the latter did not see him…

Suppressing a sigh, Steeljaw surrended before he even fought: there was no mech he was going to take a chance with tonight other than Thunderhoof.

Bending to the side of the pod, he grabbed the manual lock and twisted it open. The hiss that escaped was far too loud for his liking, but another pleased smirk painted his faceplate as no alarm sounded upon opening. Keeping his ears up and alert, he gently slinked against the waking body.

It was cold to the touch and stiff in its stirring. Time would commonly have to be taken before full capacity was reached, but Thunderhoof was not a common mech: in the few seconds it took for Steeljaw to settle himself fully against him, he had warmed up several notches and was already starting to thrash out of his forced statis. What lingering regret the silver mech had vanished as he witnessed the stamina of the mafioso: he had chosen wisely with this one, either on freeing him first, or on planning to claim him as mate.

He nuzzled the thick neck gently, yielding to the swell of affection he felt for the mech and relishing in an act he had not been able to perform for fear of spooking his indecisive lover away. The tender moment was ruined by the roar of approaching engines.

Perking up quickly, a gesture which earned him a startled groan he had to muffle with his clawed hand, he listened intently to the newcomers: two engines, one turning rhythmically while the other ran chaotic. The cadet and the rebel. Good. The first might be mindful enough to go check on the pods but the other should distract her long enough with his antics for the wolf-con to cover his tracks and get his mech out of here. Given how loud she was bellowing at the other, he might even have time to grab the dummy he had made of branches and seal it into the empty pod. With a little luck they wouldn’t look close enough to notice the deceit and Steeljaw would keep his leverage.

He turned back to the other, making optic contact to a sleepy, blinking gaze. He smirked pleasantly.

“Wakey, wakey”, he murmured, a dab of gleefulness coloring his voice. “It’s time to go _home_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not sure what I’m really trying to do with this, nor if I’m getting the relationship I want it to be, but at least I’m shaking myself a little to get out of my creative rut. Hopefully you’ll get something out of it :3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steeljaw left without a trace... or did he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I only wanted to finish Eabevella's prompt (I had to cut it in two or it'd be way too long), then she went and gave me _ideas_ and a second pairing made it's way into this. What can I say, I can't resist her.

Something wasn’t right.

He had went and checked on the prisoners’ pods, one could never be too prudent, and had noticed it: the clearer spot on the glass, as if one had wiped away the condensation sometime before so as to peer inside. More importantly, it was a spot that was nothing like the one he had made last night. Was it?

Drift’s frown got deeper. He could not quite remember what pattern he had traced last. His memory of last night’s visit was but a superposition of all the ones he had paid before, the newest imposing themselves as the oldest faded, not unlike the mist reclaiming the cool glass after being removed but never quite as evenly as it had before. It was a blurred timeline whose only clearcut element was the gesture he kept battling against but always lost to.

Pushing away the watery barrier that separated him from the sight of Fracture.

The orange bounty hunter’s lips tightened to a thin line: the only sign of shame he would ever allow himself in such situation. It was unseemly to become so emotional over simple liquid, to let his poetic nature, the one which should be used to better describe the fighting techniques of his opponents, taint what was a perfectly normal behaviour. He was indeed making sure his rival was still there, his most memorable escapes making Drift wary.

But was he really?

The orange bounty hunter stared at the offending spot. Was it really him that had made that one? Who else had any business with the purple bounty hunter? Who else could have wiped away the natural watery cover but the very fool who came back to reminisce ghosts of the past?

Escapes and fights, begrudging team-ups and snarky banters, talons idly tracing his armour…

He quickly snapped out of the reverie before it even overtook him. Ghosts they were indeed, long dead and never to be resurrected. To do that would be… he wishes to think “unseemly” again but he knows that is not the word he feels…

Sacrilegious.

For the best moments in life are not meant to be lived again, and trying to do so only taints the precious treasure that is their memory. And no matter how traitorous his lapse of judgment was, Drift had lived too long, had learned too much to even try to lie to himself: that what happened back on Luna-2 was nothing other but his fondest, darkest treasure.

And now, reminding himself of his supposed wisdom, he unveiled yet another truth he had tried to hide, the casted blindfold no longer restraining him as his servo finally accomplished its nightly ritual of clearing a path through the obstructive droplets: the truth that the tug of that treasure’s phantom appeal kept calling him back to the mech he held that one night, a long time ago.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thunderhoof has a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG CHAPTER OMIGAWD! Hopefully it's an interesting one. Enjoy!

The world was woozy, blurry and kinda dark. Though that last one, Thunderhoof understood as he got back more and more of his senses, was normal since it was night. The bluriness might also have been helped by the way Steeljaw was hurriedly dragging him along, keeping a quick pace and swerving madly every other tree. The elk-con had no idea where they were going but he followed the other as best he could, without any resistance but the sluggishness of his own body. Pulled by the servo, jerkily stomping after his leader, he looked like a grotesque mechanical doll dragged by an impatient sparkling.

And wasn't _that_ a thought. The ex-boss of the Cybertronian mafia dropped his glazy optics on his occasional lover - _dontcha mean reccurent?_ \- and was left fascinated by the way the wolf-con stayed still while the world around him moved. Or maybe it was the other way around? It was all probably just an illusion, to be honest. Like everything Steeljaw seemed to be. Comprehensive and kind, he was an utopic leader; charismatic, he had no problem making you think that. But there was an edge behind that charm, something dangerous and devious, something that was out to get you, to posses you, body and spark. And it'd do it in a way you'd think was your decision. Somedays Thunderhoof had a nasty feeling he was but a puppet intertwined in invisible threads he'd trapped himself in, dancing to what rhythm those silvery claws saw fit.

It made him want to rebel, to buck around until his slagging bonds broke and he was free to charge right into the one who had _dared_. The thing is, those threads _were_ really invisible, he could never see them though he sometimes felt them, and, if he broke some in his thrashings, others reappeared, sneakily tightening their hold on him by making him think it was an embrace.

That was the vision Thunderhoof conjured up in his muddled, drugged-like state. A complex, overdramatic illustration of a situation which a sober mind could quite easily sum up in much simpler fashion. And which he had meticulously refused to formulate: that he had the hardest time understanding what Steeljaw was _really_ doing with him, and his judgement was even more impaired by the fact that he was falling for the wolf-con; and falling hard. As it was, though, the elk-con was just as tied up in his own misplaced pride as his imagined self was in invisible lines, and thus, quite like his blind stumbling after the wolf-con in the middle of the night, he chaotically followed his lover's hints and nudges down something that suspiciously looked like a relationship. One he did not know the expectations of, and yet was frighteningly craving for.

It was probably why he was being so docile on that strange blurry night: any other, no matter how weak he felt, he would have rammed into before going his own groggy way. But this was Steeljaw, and as much as he didn't trust him, he really _really_ trusted him. This paradox he was perfectly aware of and it was yet another element on a long list of things that made him think he was probably way in over his antlered-head.

A head of which one of his proud appendages hit a very solid wall of rock.

Strangely enough, the resounding _whack_ more than the shock was what finished waking him up and he found himself blinking around at the opening of a cave. It was a big black hole who looked about to swallow you up, only the beginning of its entrance was revealed by the moonlight: on the right was a bland spot of freshly ripped off moss, probably the place his antler had collided with; on the left, a big mass of something furry, which the wolf-con had apparently tried to pass around. It smelled bad, like it was rotting.

All these observations took less than three seconds for Thunderhoof to note. In the meanwhile, Steeljaw had whirled around in surprise, thrown the elk-con's servo away in an exasperated manner and spat angrily: "Oh, sorry!"

The mafioso wasn't angry at the bad directing - appendages like his were hard to deal with after all, and it was only because he had them since he was a sparkling that he could maneuver around as steadily as those without antlers -, the (relatively) light bumping did not even register on his thick head, but he was whoozy and confused and like the Pit was he letting someone talk to him like that!

"Hey! Watch the tone, will ya!", he shot back, stomping forward in intimidation. 

Only to be nose to nuzzle as Steeljaw came up close and personal to better growl in his face: "Thunderhoof, I am tired, I am angry and more than anything I am _dissapointed_ by the recent turn of event, so I will have whatever tone I damn well please and you _will_ deal with it." He wasn't even threatening. It was still slagging effective.

Right. Megatronus. And the way Thunderhoof had tried to save his own aft in a frenzied escape, only to fall face to face with the Autobots and lose his _own_ face by losing to them. All the while, in the corner of his optic, he had seen Steeljaw fight the original Prime with a rage he had never seen the mech display before. He had done so for the world he wanted to build, he had done it for that dream he kept telling them about. The elk-con's respect for his wolfen peer had grown tenfold, swelling in his chest, mixing with his renewed vigor, fueling other feelings that usually constricted his spark rather than elated him. 

Back in the present, the swelling awe was back, making his spark thump for this incredible mech his leader was. A realization which made the burn of shame in his circuits even more agonizing as he remembered his shameful run and the pitiful way he had lost against the red youngling. Two conflicting feelings, the first that frightened him in its intensity - _you sure it's just admiration, kiddo?_ -, the second that annoyed him with how agitated it left him, battled in his processor, triggering these feelings of self-consciousness he was never quite able to get rid of and made him react the only way he knew.

He rammed into Steeljaw.

No run-up, no warning, nothing but pure impulse and imposing strength. That last one, however, as the elk-con soon discovered, was very much diminished by his recent statis and, while he was able to surprise the wolf-con and slam him into the wall, keeping him there was a whole other story. The pained grunt that had escaped Steeljaw morphed into an angry snarl and he started thrashing against the antlers, violently bucking against the hard surface of the rock and swiping his claws towards Thunderhoof's face. His optics to be exact, which made the elf-con squint them in anger. Stubbornly keeping his lover in place - _cuz even when this kind of thing happens you can't think of him differently, uh?_ -, never giving these claws a chance to get him, Thunderhoof rocked back and forth, what little leeway produced used to pound into the wolf-con's chest. Sparks appeared, metal dented and rock cracked.

The thrashing became more herratic. There was no longer any trace of his cool-tempered leader in the foaming animal struggling against him, not that the elk-con could see it as he was just as blinded with fury as the other. The trick, though, was that if anger made Thunderhoof more brash, the same had a different effect on Steeljaw: it made him more cunning, more prone to underhanded attacks. That was how the elk-con missed the tail. The appendage had been crushed against the wolf-con's backside, and, making good use of the back and forth movement its owner was subjected to, freed itself. The second it was out in the open, it latched unto Thunderhoof's right leg and made him lose his equilbrium. 

Everything then accelerated. Swiping his claw, Steeljaw met the elk-con's forward fall and slashed him with enough force to swing him the other way, leaving him completely open for a well-placed kick in the stomach. Doubling over, out of breathe and blinded by his own energon, the mafioso never saw the knee that collided into his face, making him fall heavily on his side. Silence fell in the cave, only troubled by their panting, and some semblance of common sense edged its way back into the elk-con's tired processor as he realized what he had just done: he had just attacked an opponent he would already have had hard time with in his normal state, in his post-statis shape, he had never stood a chance and was now even weaker for trying. He would have happily resolved to stay put, beaten down to submission, if it had not been for the clawed servo grabbing the back of his head.

"You... _really_ think...that I'd _ever_... let you go that _easily_...", a panting, growling voice was heard above him. Thunderhoof started struggling again, but drained of his energy there wasn't much he could do. 

"I am... _tired_ of you, Thunderhoof", Steeljaw went on, keeping the antlered-head against the ground. "Your complaining... your slacking... your _insubordination_!", he finished in a yell, stepping over the squirming body. Smaller as he might have been compared to Thunderhoof, he was still a tall mech and very effectively loomed over the weakened Decepticon. "And I'm... _truly_... starting to think... that _you_..."

A pause was then marked, and strangely it froze eveything in the cave: the panting, the struggling, even the push against Thunderhoof's head had ceased, the grip now simply locked in place, not relenting but not pressing. Silence fell on them again, but thicker than before, its weight like a heavy blanket on the two immobile mechs. The more it prolonged, the more it was suffocating for the elk-con, and a sense of dread started overtaking him. And it did not stem from his survival instincts. No, something in him told him that this wasn't a mere case of whether to keep him alive or not, but something a lot more complicated. A lot more personal.

And he was right.

"...I'm starting to think you're not worth it, Thunderhoof", Steeljaw finally finished in a breathy whisper. 

A forlorn whisper.

Something broke inside the mafioso. Like a destroyed dam, emotions flooded his whole being, overwhelmingly painful in their intensity. He didn't want that. He didn't know what he _actually_ wanted, but he knew what he did _not_ wanted. And he didn't want that. He didn't want Steeljaw to give up on him, on them. Because, as it turned out, for how confusing and complicated it was, they were a "them".

Intakes rattling, shaking, he started to move again. His processor swam with the strange epiphany he had just had, with this new-found knowledge of having possessed something so valuable and never noticing it. Of having something he desperatly didn't want to _lose_. So he started moving again and did the only thing he could think of, not that he _knew_ but that he could _think_ of, however stupid it was: he got on his knees, head still pressed to the ground, and opened his panel. 

The _shlik_ that resounded in the silence of the night was unmistakable, the slumped frame radiated submission yet a tremor in its lower part betrayed trepidation, the rich smell that filled the air left nothing to the imagination: Thunderhoof was up for the taking, and willingly so.

The silence was still there, the dread was still present, but the situation had shifted and could end in any imaginable way. The mech behind him still hadn't moved, but the elk-con could almost hear the wheels turn in his processor. Could almost see those amber optics observing him, glowing in the darkness above him. The grip on his head finally relaxed, allowing him some range of movement, and the body above him slinked closer, until chest plating pressed against his back and two golden orbs could be seen in the corner of his optic. 

He really didn't want to look at the other so he hastily looked down, spark thumping in his chest. The servo started caressing him, soothing, and muzzle pressed to the side of his face, just underneath the base of his antler, urging him to look back. He bit his lip, his intakes rattled some more. He was nuzzled gently. _'Come on. Come on. Show yourself'_ , the gesture said. His spark swirled nauseously. 

"...Thunderhoof?"

His head snapped to the side, a curt, stilted movement that made his optic meet the other's gaze. It was entirely devoid of anger, but more reassuringly it held no judgement nor mockery. It was simply curious, searching. And the more it searched, the more Thunderhoof found himself sharing. Oil started leaking from his optics, which he blinked away resolutely, before looking straight at the other and, for the very first time in his life, let himself _feel_ at the sight of a lover. With no restraint, nor hiding. 

Under that gaze his unprotected valve was the least intimate thing he bared that night. What he actually showed he had no fragging idea, and he would probably never know, but he knew two things for sure: 1) that leaking was a lot more relieving than he ever thought it'd be, and 2) that whatever sight he offered made those amber optics soften.

Before he knew it, they were gone and a glossa was at his neck, licking up and down, dwelving into sensitive seams, eager. Comforting. Thunderhoof had half a thought that he was probably being groomed, before all rational thought shattered in the quiver that ran through him. A clawed servo, the one that wasn't on his head, had slinked underneath him and was now trailing its way to his exposed valve, alighting sensors in its wake and making the elk-con squirm. The lower it trailed, the more the body over him crawled back, glossa making its way from his neck to his shoulder to his spine, until the wolf-con was no longer above but behind, now nipping his back while the servo hovered over his hot entrance.

"May I?", he rasped seductively, elliciting a surprised snort from the mafioso.

"Yous kiddin', right?", was answered back. "I kinda offered earlier on, no?"

"Yes... _earlier_ on. And things have changed since", was murmured from behind the elk-con, the sentence making his spark leap with its implications. Unless it was a reaction to the talon carefully probbing his entrance.

"Since, ngh... Since when are yous so worried 'bout this kind of stuff anyway?", Thunderhoof shot back in annoyance. He was unsettled by the sudden change in behaviour, the sudden asking for permission instead of dancing around each other until things couldn't be clearer and they jumped on one another. He wasn't sure how to react to it...

A thoughtful hum was heard, much closer then before as Steeljaw rubbed his muzzle up the elk-con's back and settled back on his neck, his hot, closed plating pressed against the mafioso's open, wet valve, his clawed fingers still working their magic. "I never had to", he finally said. "You're a tough one to crack but I pride myself in being a good judge of people: you seemed rather willing to me back at the lair. Here, now", he marked a pause. "...things seem a little different, no?".

A thoughtful silence followed. It wasn't uncomfortable like the ones before, just contemplative. Steeljaw continued to absentmindly massage Thunderhoof's entrance, gently spreading him which shot light burning sensations up his array. Not disagreeable. What _was_ was this constant back and forth between comfort zones and new territories, this strange dynamic where, each time the elk-con thought he had passed a frustrating obstacle and could finally relax for good, something else kept popping back up instead of everything reverting to the more familiar, if imperfect statu quo. He didn't know how to apprehend it, he felt like he could never settle and enjoy himself and he was getting _tired_ of it. 

Thunderhoof let out a loud sigh. The only response he could muster because screw _getting_ tired, he simply was exhausted from everything: the induced statis, the nightly run, the fight, the situation the Decepticons were in, not to talk about the strange emotional roller-coaster they'd been going through. He just wanted to forget about it all for a bit, and now Steeljaw had put forward yet another problem in their... thing. He really _really_ didn't want to think some more about his earlier vision, the one where he was a puppet, dancing along to a rhythm he wasn't sure he liked - _or maybe yous did, but yous didn't want to see it?_ \- and he wanted even less to have that conversation with his lover. Not now, now he wanted a good frag and lots of rest.

His wish, it seemed, was heard as a good-natured chuckle, muffled against his neck, bubbled out of the wolf-con, then a sinful voice purred in his audio: "Perhaps I should make a habit of asking from now on, mmmh?" That servo became more insistent. "So tell me, _Thunderhoof_ ", his voice became even more deep and gravely, elliciting shudders of pleasure down the mafioso's spine. "May I?", he finally asked pressing some more against the elk-con's backside.

" _Ngh!_ Ah! Yes", was the breathy response. It was almost embarassing how much that had turned him on - _or how much that had touched you, no?_ -, but Thunderhoof didn't really care anymore.

_Schlik_ , went Steeljaw's panel and there was a shuffling sound as the wolf-con positioned himself. Finally, _finally_ , the familiar tip of his spike pressed to his entrance and the elk-con found himself not only shivering in anticipation but pressing against it. In one experimental thrust, the opening was breached and the mafioso groaned. In one more confident thrust, the spike made its way half-through and the valve started squeezing. In one deep, controlled thrust, the wolf-con was completely sheathed inside and the elf-con left moaning.

A pace was soon found, deep, even, _fulfilling_. Each clanking sound as hips met was echoed by groans and moans from either party, mostly muffled by the ground one was holding unto and the neck the other was lavishing. The spike inside him, the talons needing his thighs and hips, the glossa playing with his neck cables, all of this was making Thunderhoof's head swim, but this time in a good way. Electricity danced between him and his lover and a searing hotness spiked for each thrusts he met with his own rolling hips. 

The pace quickened, became more herratic, and the moans and groans he heard against his audio transformed into a deep, feral growl. Thunderhoof himself started to keen, feeling his own release approaching, and that seemed to make something snap inside his lover as glossa was replaced by denta and strong, unrelenting thrusts commenced. The elk-con's engines roared in arousal while he opened his mouth wide to verbalize his appreciation. The denta pressed against his neck-cables, biting almost to energon, firmly holding him in place while the wolf-con unleashed his passion.

They didn't last long after that. It wasn't clear who had came first, who had pushed the other over but neither cared: chasing their overload, their pleasure spiralled up out of control and crashed into their system with a violence. White heat shorted their sights, singed their circuits and stuttered their movements. Before long, they were slowing down, panting. Contented.

Slumping over, the silver one still on the blue one, they happily stayed put, slowly recuperating from their activities while the roaring of their fans drowned the pings of their cooling platings. In this relaxed state, recharged threatened to claim the exhausted elk-con over, a prospect that felt even nicer as that glossa tenderly licked the bite mark on his neck. A little, rarely seen smile appeared on his face. He felt safe, secure, and far happier than he probably should, but he wasn't going to question it tonight.

He was about to doze off when his audio caught a strange noise. It was a sort of...fluttery, rhythmic noise, very discreet but unmistakeably there in the deafening silence left after their fans finally clicked off, and it was coming from behind him. Behind Steeljaw to be exact.

"...are yous wagging your damn tail?"

Licking was replaced by eager nuzzling, a soft pleased noise, closer to one a turbopuppy would make, escaping the normally dignified wolf-con. The fluttery, rhythmic noise intensified. Thunderhoof only had the time to roll his optics and sleepily chuckle, drunk with his lover's strange, infectious happiness, before recharge claimed him for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh the drama... And it isn't even over! Huge leap this might be, they still got a lot of things to work out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I did mention the minicons were along for the ride, right?

"Jetstorm, I am not sure this is such a good idea...", Slipstream uncertainly said, casting a worried glance over his shoulder. The two disciples were in the middle of the pods, hidden from sight by the same objects that seemed to loom menacingly over them, each made even more eerie by the distinctive silhouettes inhabitating them. The red minicon suppressed a shudder. Even now, on a bright sunny day, did it make him uncomfortable to stand there without any of the bigger bots. He didn't even want to think of what it would be if they had done this at night.

"It is fine. We are not doing anything wrong by our mere presence and have no intention to be other than a fleeting shadow", was the black minicon's response. And he was saying the truth: the pods were not off-limits, even the occupied ones, and several members of the team often visited to check on the prisoners or for maintenance issues. Surely, the minicons were not breaking any set rules, yet... Yet all of whom that came here usually did so for a good reason, one of use to the team's well-fare, and thus it did not seem right to be here for mere... snooping...

"Come, brother. Are you not curious to see what our master has been up to?"

Especially if said snooping was on their mentor.

"I am sure it is perfectly in the parameters of the mission we have set here", Slipstream said in a soothing tone, hoping to tame the fire of Jetstorm's curiosity. "He _is_ Master Drift, after all. He never does anything that deviates from his principles."

A guilty smile was sent his way, the same they sometimes shared when their master was not looking: _"And he is a little boring for it"_ , it said. A declaration they could not help but think while knowing they should not. Though, the sparkles in their optics betrayed as much affection than merriment at the thought.

Sighing, the calmer minicon yielded to his brother's wishes and made a gesture for the other to lead the way. Jetstorm happily smiled at him before trotting up to where the pod his master was seen the most around was, or, more exactly, the pod where the two of them had spied him going to, pbserving him from the shadowed top of the command center, away from the berths they should had been in... more times than was decent... The black minicon lost a bit of his eagerness, shame suddenly burning in his circuits for going against his master's wishes of going to berth early. If he couldn't even follow such simple rules, how could he ever show his worth to master Drift? How could he ever-

"-know which one was it?"

Lost in his self-induced guilt-trip, Jetstorm hadn't realizes they had arrived at destination until Slipstream's voice brought him back to reality.

"Uh?", he eloquently asked.

A pointed look. "Master Drift. Which pod does he keep staring at? There must be something about it if he keeps coming back here."

It was a good question. One this little expedition was all about: what compelled their master to leave in the middle of the night to stand erect in front of the same pod, completely still save for that one gesture that suspiciously looked like a caress. The black minicon looked about: from their usual perch, they could have recognized the pod in a sparkbeat, but here back on ground zero, surrounded by identical structures, they found themselves disoriented. They knew they were in the right area, they knew not how to pinpoint the exact location.

"Hum...", he started, looking about for some sort of clue. His optic fell on a spiky sillhouette. "Isn't that the Decepticon we arrested on the day we came back to Earth?"

"You mean on the day you left without notice", Slipstream chided, still ruffled over his brother leaving them like that. An apologetic smile was flashed his way before the black minicon looked to the next pod. "And I believe this one is Underbite", he pointed at the hulking figure.

Slipstream sighed. "This is pointless. Staring and pointing will get us nowhere and-", his sentence died in a sharp intake. Turning around an attempt at ending a peregrination he did not want to be part of, he had caught sight of a far too familiar figure, hurriedly and clumsily adopting a defensive position. On his right, all this time he had talked to his brother, he had been less than a feet away from Fracture.

He suppressed his second frightened shudder of the day. The purple bounty hunter was an opponent he was particularly wary of, his ways being devious and his attitude ruthless, but what made him truly a powerful foe in his optics was his-

"-long, rivalling history with master Drift", two voice uttered at once. A smile was shared between the minicons, one full of complicity and understanding: they had come to the same conclusion.

"So this is where he comes at night. Come to think of it, we should have guessed. He is the only here who is linked to our master", Jetstorm declared.

"Yes. He probably wishes to savour his long overdue victory over the scoundrel", Slipstream added gleefully.

"Or perhaps it is one of those ancient warrior techniques he told us about", the black minicon excitedly chittered. "Maybe that energy mantra he alluded to."

The red minicon gasped in awe, stars in his optic. "He feeds on his enemy's energy, dispelling its bad aura and replenishing his own honorable one. Master Drift really is the best", he finished in a squeal, more akin to a fanbot than a respectful disciple.

"Do you think _we_ could do that?", the black minicon eagerly asked. "Fracture may not be our nemesis but his own minicons could be just as!"

Slipstream wanted to tell him no, that he really ought not to try anything the master had not taught him, that it was foolish to think in terms of nemesises...but his brother's excitement was infectious and he found himself saying: "Well, it couldn't hurt to try".

So they planted themselves in front of the pod, erect, still and entered their meditative state.

Meditate.

Feel the aura.

Meditate.

Feel the aura.

_Scratch scratch._

Meditate.

_Fidget, fidget._

Feel the aur-

"This is not working." Twin shoulders slumped at their umpthieth failed attempt at meditation. They truly needed to work on their focus some more....

"Perhaps we are doing this wrong?", Slipstream ventured. "Perhaps there is a special ritual?"

Jetstorm was silent, thoughtfully looking at the pod. Then he perked up. "Of course! The gesture he makes! He always touched the pod during his visits. We should do that!"

That Slipstream was not quite sure of, and he was about to tell his brother so when the black minicon skipped closer to the pod and rested his hand on it. He didn't even come to half of its size, so instead of trying to touch the glass like his master did, he simply made a semi-circular motion on its side, optics off and expression suddenly serious.

Slipstream stayed just as still, but optics quite on as he stared at his sibling, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. He relaxed minutely, maybe the idea was not that bad after all? Maybe he could also try-

A beeping noise was suddenly heard, and blinking lights started popping all across the top of the pod. Jetstorm jumped away in fright, quickly rejoined by his brother.

"What have you _done?_ ", Slipstream cried.

Twin optics looked at the spot where the black minicon's hand had rested. _Manual overdrive. Twist to the left or press for three seconds._

A hissing sounds was heard and the pod opened in a misty smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I tried a style a little different than usual to suit these two, not sure if I managed but you don't learn if you don't try. Hope you enjoyed!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I said the minicons were along for the ride, I never said it wasn't a bumpy one ;)

The scene seemed to come right out of one of Russell's movies: as the mist expanded and cleared, a dark silhouette shifted, slowly getting up, its tall height soon looming over the two horrified minicons, rooted in place as cruel ruby optics settled on them.

They were dead.

The purple bounty hunter, still half hidden in the fast evaporating mist, took one heavy step towards them, body turning to the side in one fluid movement to better face them. Those optics became threatening slits.

They were _so_ dead.

Shoulder pads flailed, ready to unleash its minions, and arms expanded out in an attack position before Fracture...began to bat the air in a desperate attemp at keeping straight.

They were...not so dead?

Now that the mist had cleared and that their horror spell had been broken by the ridiculous gesture, the siblings realized that they had had things all wrong: the purple bounty hunter hadn't taken a menacing step but was incapable of keeping straight and still, forcing him to heavily drunk walk in his drugged-like state, the movement they thought fluid being a consequence of his flailing. As for the slitted optics, squinting was actually much more accurate as they noticed how unfocused his gaze was.

"Uwa? Wemai?!", he let out, mouth hanging open.

All in all, Fracture offered a rather ludicrous sight. The more so since for the first time in their lives, the two younglings didn't feel any of that awed fear he usually instilled in them. They watched as he awkwardly attempted to walk away, body swinging back and forth, pedes dragging and those _almost_ comprehensible gurggles still escaping his throat. They almost felt embarassed for him: his warrior's dignity had taken a toll with such an entrance  
.  
Or not. A quick glance at each other revealed how scared they really had been, and how dire they knew the situation could become if he ever got back to his senses before they could put him back into his pod. He _was_ master Drift's rival, after all, and for good reasons. They needed to neutralize the impending threat he representated as soon as possible.

Squaring their shoulders, filled with the duty of righting their wrong, they set about their missions. They caught up to the purple bounty hunter, running past him before planting himself in front of him, ready to fight, and lifting up their arms so as to declare:

"Sorry, road closed! You'll have to turn back and use a detour."

At least, that was what _Slipstream_ said, his brother slowly turning a baffled expression towards him. 

"What? I panicked", the red minicon shrugged helplessly.

The ruse seemed to have worked, though, surprisingly, because Fracture turned around in a stilted rotation on his pedes and stumbled back towards the pod while grumbling about 'stupid road blocks'. Crisis averted. For now.

"We need to get him back into the pod _before_ he gets his sense back, Jetstorm", Slipstream urged his brother.

"I know, I _know_ ", Jetstorm responded, moving his hands in a placating gesture. He looked at the con, who, high off his processor, was pointing in ever which direction, mumbling something about 'trying to find the room'. His optics lit up. "I think I have an idea!", he told his sibling, before making his way to the bigger bot.

"Hum... Excuse me? Sir? Are you lost?", he asked in the most polite tone he could muster, which was, sadly, not the most self-assured, and which became even worse when the purple bounty hunter whipped around in attention. "Ah, I... Errr... Couldn't help but hear you were looking for your room. I... hum, I am here to assist you."

Fracture, it would seem, had regained back some of his senses, for this one ruse did not sway him like the first: instead, he squinted down at the minicon in front of him, slowly bending over to come closer to his optic level. Because it seemed he had also regained his balance. Ruby optics looked straight into his spark and an angry sneer made his way to his face. Jetstorm started to tremble, armour rattling in fright.

Then the purple bounty hunter suddenly straightened up: " _Finally!_ Can't believe you left a mech on its own this way." He pointed an accusatory, if wobbly, finger towards the minicon. "You ain't getting a tip", he snipped, sounding less like a disatisfied customer and more like a creator chiding its offspring.

"We perfectly understand, sir", Slisptream finally stepped in, having understood what his brother was aiming at (and gotten over his fright far quicker than his poor sibling, who was still quaking). "Please, come this way", he continued with a soft, welcoming tone, while gesturing towards the open pod, the embodiment of a perfect hosting employee as he casted his optics down in a gentle way. 

In any other situation, Jetstorm would have teased him about being the perfect housebot, but, again, in any other situation Jetstorm would not be trying to repress a leak. He finally got over it, however, at the reassuring sight of Fracture clumsily putting a pede inside his pod, mumbling and grumbling about 'rooms becoming smaller as their prices go up'.

Running up to his brother, he shared with him a discreet high five and whispered to him:

"Good job. Now we just need to wait for him to get comfortable and we can seal him up again."

"And the others _or_ master Drift won't be any wiser", the red minicon added with a beam.

Their good mood was short lived, however, as silence suddenly fell. In the still air of the fine spring morning, Fracture's clumsy clings and clongs ceased and the lean Decepticon's optics, falling on them, held a sharpness that did not bode well.

" _Drift?_ ", he hissed.

For the second time in less than ten seconds, the two little bots found themselves praying to Primus that this day would not be their last. Or better yet, that this mistake could be corrected before their mentor heard about it. For they had their priorities straight.

The purple bounty hunter looked back at the pod he was halfway in. "Hey, hey, this ain't a room", he said with suspicion. "And you ain't hotel employees", he added, turning back to them. "You're Drift's little henchmen. I recognize you now!", he exclaimed, making the minicons flinch.

"Oh, I see what this is about", he continued, straightening up and, to the siblings' horror, leaning away from the pod. "He got you to do the dirty job, uh? Get me all wrapped up to his satisfaction or something." His voice dropped to a dangerous low: "Well, it ain't happening."

In one swift movement, he extricated himself from the pod and planted his pedes right in front of the trembling minicons, his fist lifting up above them, ready to strike, and his mouth opening to say the last words they would likely ever hear:

"I. Got. Standards!"

And just like that the situation derailed again. And never in a million years would have Slipstream, nor Jetstorm, envisioned where this umpthieth swerve would lead them.

"Just _who_ does he think he is, anyway? I may be a Decepticon, and I may like a good frag like the next one, but I don't just...just... _dive_ into someone's berth like that! What ever happened to 'lemme get you a drink', anyway?! I swear, nowadays you can't find any good-"

The minicons just stared. Too drained by the numerous close-calls they had experienced in such a short timespan, they found themselves incapable to properly react to the animated rant taking place in front of them.

"Brother...", Slipstream started.

"Yes?", Jetstorm responded.

"Did he really just think that...?", the first one trailed.

"Yes. Yes, I believe he did", the second one confirmed.

That was when a fresh wave of horror hit them. Oh no. Oh no no no no no! They could _not_ have just accidently stained master Drift's reputation as a gentlebot, _especially_ in regards to his mightiest foe. Nor could they stand idly anymore.

"-ean, last time was an _exception_. If he _really_ wants to get his servos on me ag-ARGH!"

Moving as one, taking advantage of their foe's dazed state, Slipstream and Jetsrotm tackled the still ranting Decepticon, sending him flying into the pod with a grunt, before using their momentum to land heavily on the glass, pressing it back down. Then they held to dear life on each side of it, as a couple members that had stayed out and been caught in the gap startled to struggle for freedom.

"Hey, this isn't, urgh! This isn't a berth", Fracture shrilled, kicking the air with his free pede while trying to punch his two diminutive opponents.

"How nice of you to notice", Slipstream said between grited denta, trying to muster all of his might to keep the glass down long enough for Jetstorm to reach the manual switch.

"Lemme go! I want out!", the purple bounty hunter started to shriek, panic coloring his voice.

"Never!", Jetstorm cried back. "We will not let your evil ways out in the world again! We are master Drift's disciples and we fight in the name of his purity of spark!" 

Slipstream wanted nothing more than to kick his brother, both for the cliché that was his speech, not to mention how naive it was, and for the fact that he was delivering said speech when he should have been focusing on _reaching. That. Switch!_

An ominous _kthap!_ above his head startled him out of these thoughts, however, shattering the chaos of the situation like a bullet through a window, leaving nothing but silence. Fracture's fist had missed him by a mere inch and the purple bounty hunter was now eerily calm.

"Oh _really_?", he spat, voice dripping with venom. "Then I think this _might_ be of interest to you", he said as his arm went rigid, shooting out a flat, rectangulaire object from his wrist.

The recoil propulsed his long arm back inside the pod and a nicely aimed kick by the black minicon, on his way down to the switch, finished to push Fracture back into his pod. Just as Jetstorm reactivated the statis frequence, a ruby optic made itself show through the glass, defiantly glaring back at him.

"Tell your _pure_ mech of a master that I got several copies of it stashed _all_ across the galaxy, and that if he wants to make sure they _never_ see the light of day, he better let. Me. Out."

The threatening tone was something the black minicon could have taken, but the strange mirth that seemed to color Fracture's last words before he was rendered unconscious made Jetstorm shudder, and it was with worried optics that he looked at his brother, the red minicon having gone to retrieve the thrown object, picking it up from the ground and looking just as distressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a hard time with pacing on this one. I hope it read well!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before...the storm? The drizzle? The _hurricane_? No one knows, but some are more optimistic than others.

The sun was high in the sky when Steeljaw finally stirred from the deep recharge he had fallen into. It was a nice change to awake without feeling both tired and restless, an experience he was not fond of and which he had had to live with since he had become packless. A pleasant sensation washed over him as he felt under him the warm plating of another, the rhythmic rumbling of their engines soothing to his audios despite their volume. There was truly nothing like sleeping on a lover.

_"Speaking of lovers"_ , the wolf-con thought as he slowly powered up his optics. His gaze then met the back of an antlered-head, instead of a sleeping face as he had expected, and, for a moment, he was left confused. They had, apparently, yielded to recharge right after their tryst, not even bothering to move from the way they had performed their nightly coupling. The position was quite comfortable as far as Steeljaw was concerned, cozily perched on his bigger lover as he was, but the same could not be said of Thunderhoof: the way he had locked his knees to keep his aft in the air could not be good for his back, and the awkward angle of his neck would make him hate himself when he finally powered up. Despite this, though, he did look at peace, and that brought a soft smile to Steeljaw.

A smile which turned smug as he extricated himself from his lover, both standing up from his sprawled position on the bigger mech and unsheathing his now limp spike from his valve. A glance earned him the pleasing sight of dried transfluid coating the powerful thighs. Ah yes, while there was truly nothing like sleeping on a lover, the sight of a ravished one was still one to behold. It was even more satisfaying when the wolf-con reminded himself that he was one of the select few to have witnessed this particular mech in such a disheveled state. And was, based on the events of the night before, likely to be the last to attain that privilege.

It was with this empowering thought that Steeljaw thus started his day, a feeling of extreme satisfaction fueling his processor's already keen abilities, an even greater end motivating his plans to crush the Autobots.

Nothing could stop him now.

\-------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, several dozen miles away, in the safety of a scrapyard turned ward, two minicons felt just as away from the wolf-con's feelings as they were geographically.

The object, as it turned out, was a USB device. And on it, from Fracture's words, was something which had _copies_ , copies which could apparently be detrimental to master Drift. The very thought of such a concept sunk their dutiful sparks. More than that, a streak of protectiveness overtook them, a wish to keep their master out of harm's way, be it physical or moral, by any means necessary. 

No distress would ill their master. Not if they could help it.

That is thus how, without even exchanging a word, they decided to crack open the mystery file. Discreetly.

While the mission was simple enough, its fulfillment was a lot more complex. Indeed, just as they had exited the prison area, Fixit and Denny had been seen rolling in their direction, talking about strange noises. One good excuse and a glare from Slisptream promising retribution later, Jetstorm was leading the way towards their part of the scrapyard, passing Sideswipe who was cluelessly dancing to some foreign beat, making sure not to break Grimlock's focus while he drew with makeshift crayons on paper table cloth, and avoiding Strongarm at all cost as she came back from her patrol. Thankfully, Bumblebee and their master were still out, and it is with beating sparks, and a strange feeling of having been utterly conspicuous despite their care, that they arrived to the safety of their shared space.

The "room" they had taken over was spartan: three simple planks acting as makeshift berths, a hand-made display stand on which additional weapons were set and a small computer unit. The latter was usually used for long-range communication or storage information on the criminals they brought to justice, two things that they hadn't needed to do since they settled on earth, but today they found a new use for the machine. 

Plugging in the device, its presence popped up on the screen, revealing a single video file. Hesitation made them tremble. What could be on these moving images? In what way could it hurt their master? And why had he hid it from them? For that was the real question. They may have been young, and they may have been inexperienced, but they were still on the orange bot's team, a team which he had built on trust and respect, telling them all they needed to know about the dangers of his way of life and the experiences he had, good or bad. Silent and distant as he way, their master had at least been honest with them. So why? Why would this be an exception? 

Perhaps master Drift had a good reason to hide this video, this event, from them, perhaps they were making a mistake by clicking play... but, setting the sound low enough not to attract any unwanteds, nervously looking over their shoulder one last time, the two minicons still braced themselves and watched, with sparks swirling in anticipation, just what sword of Damocles Fracture held over their master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see this as some kind of intermediary chapter: the one that needs to be but does nothing more than prepare for what is to come. Sadly, updates will be slower from now on: tomorrow I'll be super busy looking for a place to live in, then wednesday I start my summer job which means I'll have a lot less free time time and what little I'll have will be taken up by summer family festivities and looking for an internship. I'm gonna sound like I'm asking for praise but, honestly, comments DO make me write faster because it not only boostes me but gives me ideas. We'll see how things go from there on. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm has passed, now on to the weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't go through a lot of re-reading because it was important for me to start publishing again, I apologize for my typos and grammar mistakes.
> 
> I’d like to take the time here to thank all the people that’s shown interest, I’m super suprised at how well my story has been received and it warms my heart how invested you all seem to be in seeing it through. Really, it’s wonderful.  
> I can’t guarantee regular updates as I’m still in school and struggling with a lot of physical pain, but I can guarantee that I KNOW how this story is going to end and this means I want to see said ending published ;)
> 
> Now, please enjoy!

Darkness.

And light, but a grey one. Fritzy and fuzzy, coming from behind a corner and cleanly splitting the screen in two rectangular shapes, one made of this inconstant light, the other of all engulfing darkness.

Suddenly, shadows appear, breaking the steady stream of dirty light as they skitter past the corner, one stopping the other before it continues on its mad dash, the both of them hastily huddling together into the darkness. These shadows were far too familiar to the audience not to recognize them, and this despite the bad video quality. 

Drift and Fracture.

There was no mistaking the characteristic silhouette of the purple bounty hunter, and their master's would forever be engraved in their processors. So many times have they indeed looked up to him, optics wide in admiration, memorizing his every move as they strove to achieve his level. Now it was with optics just as wide and attentive that they looked down at him, but the swirl in their sparks was not the usual inspiration-filled one.

They watched as master Drift pressed face first against the wall, doing his best to dissapear in the shadows he had seeked shelter into, only thin reflections on his colorful armour and the dim light of his biolights betraying his presence. Enough to be seen, enough to be striken down... and not nearly ready for an offensive. Yet he stayed in that position, offering his back to the camera but more importantly to potential foes, the shadows of which danced frantically in the grey light, as if passing in a mad run, and he kept pressing against the wall. Against Fracture.

The Decepticon's darker armour did a much better job blending in, the only clue to his presence being those hovering ruby optics glimming wickedly in the dark about a head over their master's - and again, the minicons were superstitiously certain that he could dissapear entirely in an element they thought him made of. Yet, _he_ was the one pressed against the wall, sheltered from sight, a firm servo on his shoulder pushing him back as he tried to jerk himself free, iridescent orbs glancing around nervously. Master Drift was making sure that Fracture stayed put, bodily restraining the taller mech to the risk of not being prepared for an impending attack.

Any other than the minicons might have thought he was protecting his rival, but his disciples were far too familiar with the dangers of a bounty hunter's life...and the situations where hiding was the only chance of survival. They could see the tension in their master's frame as these frantic shadows came by more regularly, see the way Fracture kept sheathing and unsheating his weapon, much alike an organic feline nervously flexing its claws, ready to fight for its life. Whatever situation they were in, it was a dire one: any wrong move could cost them. And the Decepticon's jittery behaviour was currently a threat to them both which was why their master was trying to reason with him, the back of his head gently moving with each of his words, his attitude soothing and his servo still firmly against the other's shoulder.

Many questions flooded Jetstorm's and Slipstream's processors: where were they? What had been their mission? Who had they been after? Who was after _them_? Why was the equally seasoned Fracture losing so much of his cool suddenly? Was the situation that helpless?

And why were they helping _each other?_

For if Drift was the one holding Fracture together, the Decepticon had been the one to pull the Autobot into the relative safety of their hiding place, a curtesy the minicons never thought the purple bounty hunter capable of. He was also, they noticed upon better observation, the one keeping his optics on the area behind their master, where the camera did not allow the audience to see. _Watching his back_. There was no mistaking the stance the Decepticon had adopted now, one the siblings were very intimate with and had known since even before they met their master: a deceptively relaxed position, which allowed the one facing you to serve as a shield, making you _look_ powerless...but in truth ready to pounce at the right opportunity. Fracture was calm now, and he was ready to fight with their master. _Together_.

The more the siblings watched, the more bizarre the whole spectacle seemed to them. Master Drift once worked with Fracture? Fracture was actually experienced in team work? And, while the video was surprising, there wasn't really anything shameful here, so why master Drift would want to hide this?

Suddenly the taller Decepticons, whose optics fell down towards their master's face, spoke. They could not hear what he said, of course, for the video surveillance only recorded images, but they could see his lips move as he inclined his head towards the light.

_"Ugh" _, they thought they could read._ "When we get out of this, remind me t-"_

But he was cut by the sharp turn of their master's head, looking towards the grey light they were trying to hide from, body tensing. Those shadows that kept passing were darker now, bigger... closer. 

Gripping each other, the two bounty hunters stilled, optics powered down, biolights dimming to a flicker, and practically dissapeared in the dark. Only crescents of light reflected weakly on their armour, enough to be seen if one looked long enough. Fortunately for them, their enemies only passed by: four big mechs, war-builds, galloped through the corridors, their great mass making the camera tremble. As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

Master Drift and his foe did not move. And they didn't until a long, long time after several other mechs passed by in a hurry, after the grey light flickered and nearly died, after tremors made the camera shake once again but no heavy pedesteps passed by. Only after all of this, only after a strange impression of calm, like the one after a storm, fell on the situation, did they stir. Shoulders sagged, stances lowered, biolights and optics turning back on, dimmed in tiredness as a sigh seemed to escape them. Fracture even let out a shaky chuckle.

Relief. Whatever danger had loomed over them, it was now gone. Along with their reason to be this close which was why the Decepticon naturally started extricating himself from the protective hold he was in.

To no avail. Master Drift did not budge.

Fracture tried to shove him off and, more still than ever, the samurai continued to press him against the wall. He was but an inmovable barrier, trapping his rival in a cramped space.

The two minicons exchanged a glance. Was this the big secret? Master Drift taking advantage of such an opportunity to finally catch his rival? It seemed so... trivial... Yet so much like their master: this was a dishonorable way of acting, yes, one he'd be ashamed of, true, but no one but himself would blame him. His disciples, though a bit surprised by this behaviour, sure were not. It even seemed rather clever to them.

Twin shoulders sagged in relief, amused optics watching as Fracture seemed to snarl "Get off!" while struggling against the much stronger than met the optic Autobot. All was fine. This might bring a bit of emotional distress to their master but as he once said: "Your actions after your errors are what truly defines you, not the error itself". Wise words they would know to use should this video become public, coupled with praises to appease. Yes, they could take care of this. There was even a twinge of guilty happiness as they contemplated how important their support could become to Master Drift. All was fine. All was well.

Then all hell broke loose as their master, their role model, the one they swore to never look up to without respect and admiration, the most serious mech they have ever met and the personified example of _propriety_ , suddenly grabbed hold of his rival's face to kiss him senseless.

Upon such a sight, only one reaction was appropriate: to frantically jump around like two distressed petrobunnies, silently squeaking as one shoved their fist into their mouth to avoid making too much noise. And such a reaction they had.

What was going on? _What_ was going _on_?!! Master Drift was- He did-

On the video, Fracture snapped out of his daze and responded in kin.

Calm sweeped over the two minicons. They froze and watched with fascinated horror as the Decepticon's talons danced over their master's body, a long purple leg hiking up an orange hip as broad hands grabbed his hips. In one quick movement Fracture's pedes jumped off the floor and crossed around his rival-turned-lover who in turn pressed their pelvises flush. The purple bounty hunter threw his head back in a gasp, spine arching madly, and the orange one hunched over, catching his balance with one hand against the wall. 

Just like that Jetstorm and Slipstream knew that they had skipped foreplay.

It was really impressive to be honest. It was not just that they had managed to synchronize themselves so well, it was also the sheer _passion_ they were displaying: Fracture writhing and ondulating against master Drift whose thrusts were deep and harsh, the two losing themselves into one another. More than simple fragging, this was utter and complete release. Reminiscent of a dam that had finally broken under the pressure of water, releasing its content with might

And as a dam that broke, it was finished as quickly as it had began. 

So strong was their passion, indeed, that they did not last long. Fracture whose talons were digging into their master's back, suddenly swung his arms back, servos slamming against the wall and cracking, holding unto it as if his life depended on it, his mouth open in what was undubitably a very loud moan. His optics dimmed in pleasure as he rode his overload through master Drift's last thrusts. Soon, the orange bounty hunter gave two last stilted ones before freezing, body shuddering intensily. 

All in all the matter had taken only a couple of minutes. 

Now the two mechs were panting, covered in condensation, holding together simply by leaning on the cracked wall - a mess. But a finished one. The two minicons may have calmed down but they had not relaxed. Now the tension eased in their frames just like it did in theirs. 

Surprises had kept appearing since they had pressed play, and surprises were still to appear, but this one, if unexpected, was almost soothing: A large dreamy smile bloomed on the Decepticon's faceplate, optics slowly refocusing. He looked down and his smile changed into a pleased grin - but not the cruel one they knew, it was disturbingly genuine as he basked in the afterglow. Their master's expression they could not see, his back still to them, but the movement he responded with was unmistakeable as he proceeded to nuzzle his peer's throat. Relaxing even more under the ministrations, the purple bounty hunter turned his head to give him better access, still dim optics looking up but at nothing in particular, talons letting go of the wall and going back to their original place on his rival's back. Caressing instead of digging. Master Drift furrowed even deeper into Fracture's neck, strong arms no longer holding his peer at arm's length but embracing him. Fully. Desperatly. As if he wished the other to melt into him so he'd never leave. 

The last image before the video cut off was of them in this position. 

Peaceful. 

Quiet. 

...Affectionate. 

**Author's Note:**

> I think it’s high time I admitted that I actually prefer Thunderhoof as the receiver *coughandhasthecarriercough* don’t mind the other way around just… prefer it this way ;3


End file.
